


Walking the Battlefields

by Halfblood_Fiend



Series: more-aoe's Prompts That Turned to Smut [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut, counting scars, custom!Hawke, some Justice angst, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4899298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfblood_Fiend/pseuds/Halfblood_Fiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders heals his lover after a run-in with the Templars</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking the Battlefields

**Author's Note:**

> The first smut fic I wrote with these prompts. Happy Anders is the best Anders.  
> Prompt is underlined.  
> Enjoy.

Death, death, death, and the battlefield his skin, cut and abraded, bruised and punctured. Anders maps the fights with his eyes as his magic thrums through both of them. Clint lies back on the clinic table, his eyes closed, completely surrendering himself to his healer. Without bright piercing eyes, Anders lets himself just _look_. Chiseled face to hard angles of smooth muscle, crisscrossed and puckered by his brushes with death. Anders is familiar with each one, many he healed himself. His lover made a game of dragging himself into Anders’ clinic, bleeding and broken, and boasting about what his enemies looked like in comparison. Though he tried in the beginning, Anders was finished admonishing him. Nothing he said would make Clint listen. But the battles lay bare before him and their memories, each close call, made his chest tighten with worry. And there would only be more.

Deft hands continued their work from memory, but staring at the carnage across Clint’s bare chest was no longer enough for Anders. He needed to feel them. To remember and remind himself that Clint was alive and was irrevocably his. Heart quickening, he leans close to the first ragged scar across Clint’s collarbone. Burning lips kissed the healed skin, reverently remembering a silent drop from the Carta. Above him, Clint hums softly, music to Anders’ ears. Next nearest is a circular puncture in his chest where a bandit’s arrow had nearly found its mark. His tongue darts out to taste his lover’s pebbled skin, trace where he had healed. Clint’s hand tangles into Anders’ hair and urges him on as he takes a nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue. Clint’s breath hitches and the hand on the back of Ander’s head grips tighter. Smirking slightly, his languid tongue moves on, tracing a crisscross of short scars. An assassin that caught them by surprise. They lead him down, white lines arcing over a hard stomach and Anders is obliged to follow. He kisses with an open, searching mouth and touches with his nose, letting his stubble scrape gently over the sensitive skin. He revels in Clint’s shivers and takes his ragged breathing as encouragement. He ghosts over a patch of smooth, shining skin on Clint’s side with his lips. The splash of a fireball spell that Clint barely dodged in time.

“Anders…” Clint hisses lowly, digging with his fingers, urging him lower.

He pauses in his ministrations to meet Clint’s heady gaze, burning blue and brilliant, watching with rapt attention. Anders feels his own shiver before his heavy-lidded lover’s intensity but he was not to be swayed from his work. His glowing hand on Clint’s hip lifts and his eyes rove over Clint’s newest addition to his battlefield; a brush with Templars who threatened the Darktown clinic. For a moment, Anders feels the burning pull in the pit of his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut and steels himself against the stirring spirit. _Justice will not take this moment from him_ , he swears.

“Anders,” Clint whispers.

Their eyes meet and Anders finds himself lost at sea. There is lust there, but there is concern and Anders feels the guilt of putting it there as surely as he wants to dispel it. He smiles, small and reassuring. “It’s nothing.” He pulls Clint’s hand from his face and presses soft reassurances to his wrist, his palm, his knuckles. He takes a calloused finger in his mouth and watches Clint’s face as he gently sucks. He watches his brows furrow, his lovely mouth pull back in a soft groan and he laughs when his lover’s hips buck on the table.

“Anders.”

His own erection strains beneath his robes, but ever a healer first, Anders leans over to check Clint’s wound again. It is still red, still new, but healed. He lays a gentle kiss against the raw skin and smiles smugly at a job well done. Again. How many times has he patched Clint now? How much more will he have to do in their future? Their battles would continue to be carved into his reckless lover’s skin. Yet now he is safe, he is alive, and he is _his_.

“Your hands do good work,” Clint murmurs huskily and Anders meets a heavy-lidded gaze. “Show me what else you can do, love.”

Anders smirks and his head dips to kiss along the hem of Clint’s breeches, eyes never leaving his lover’s. One hand wanders up the man’s side, trailing magic icy fingertips while the other pulls at the breeches’ laces with agonizing slowness. He watches Clint shudder and writhe beneath him, hips urging for more, a hand closing over Anders’ slender forearm and squeezing.

Anders’ hand slips beneath Clint’s loosened smalls and finds his hardened length and when his fingers close around the throbbing cock, Clint bucks. Anders moans against Clint’s skin and his own hips thrust uselessly into the air. But he ignores himself and sets to work, fingers squeezing in slow rhythmic strokes that drives the man on the table wild. He groans wantonly, thrusting into Anders’ hand while he continues to taste his skin with open mouthed kisses, leading, slowly working his way back over Clint’s chest.

With a growl, Clint yanks on Anders’ arm and crushes him with a searing kiss. He uses Anders’ surprised gasp to fill his mouth with an urgent tongue and Anders moans into the kiss. He feels his lover’s hands making short work of the clasps of his robe and he decides that won’t do. Smirking, Anders increases the tempo of the hand around Clint’s cock. He pauses and groans but Anders isn’t finished with him. A small surge of mana, and his hand is buzzing with tiny bursts of static which had Clint all but convulsing on the table, Anders’ robes and lips completely forgotten. He makes the most glorious noises and shouts Anders’ name as he comes, hot and fast. Anders works his hand faster, coaxing every noise he can from his beautiful lover, watching his back arch appreciatively as he rides his orgasm to its fullest.

Panting, spent, and shaking, Anders claims Clint’s mouth as his own and drinks the rest of his sighs like honeyed wine. His strong arms surround Anders and keep him there, pulling him deeper and he loses himself in their shared bliss.

Their kisses slow, draw out as if he never wants to end them, then Anders pulls just enough away that he can see Clint’s lovely flushed face. He was beautiful like this. Not the Champion, not Kirkwall’s savior, just a man, just his lover. Anders could reduce him to a panting, squirming wretch, begging breathlessly for more. Anders could make him flush and shudder. Anders could make him love him.

“You still have the key to my cellar, don’t you?” Clint asks, breaking Anders’ thoughts.

“I—yes, of course. Why?”

“Good. Because I don’t want to waste any time.” Clint hops off the table and quickly gathers his shirt and quiver. His hand closes tightly around Anders’ wrist and with a wicked grin, he drags Anders away from the clinic.


End file.
